


this sudden burst of sunlight

by smithens



Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Epistolary, First Time, Love Letters, M/M, Premature Ejaculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: He's looking at me,Thomas thinks.He likes what he sees.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949431
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	this sudden burst of sunlight

**Downton, July 1927**

_He's looking at me,_ Thomas thinks. _He likes what he sees._

Likes him biting his lip to stifle his own sounds, likes him on his back with his knees up to his chest, holding himself open by the shins, likes him tucking and untucking his hips, likes him sweating and flushed (his cheeks are warm, his ears are warm, his chest is warm) and needing more. _I want you,_ his own body says. It's good. It's the best he's had in ages, actually, but he can't manage to get the words out, not like this. When he's not forcing his mouth shut he's gasping; when he's not gasping he's saying "yes," or trying to. Closer to that one.

Richard reaches toward him and tussles his hair, other hand still between his legs, two fingers spread inside of him. So playful. So affectionate. He _likes_ him. Nobody would look at somebody with that much light and warmth in his eyes if he didn't like him, would he? God, when has it ever before been like this? On the first night, no less. On the only night.

"Yes," Thomas breathes, quiet as he can. They've got to be quiet. He can't forget to be quiet, but there's a stretch in the backs of his thighs and his heartbeat pulsing in his throat (and in his chest and low in his belly) and Richard's paying him close attention with his eyes and his hands at the same time, "yes," and the more of it he gets the more of a quivering mess he becomes but he can't make himself care because he's just looking at him like that, and he can't be shy or ashamed—ashamed, fuck, he never used to feel that way about any of this but that was before he was flung into a bloody jail cell

"Right, Thomas, what are you thinking?"

Smiling, bright, warm, and… Thomas forgets.

He can't keep his thoughts straight.

He doesn't need to. Not here. Not now.

"Thinking it's about time you," he starts, only Richard raises his eyebrows (still with that grin on his face) and bends his fingers toward the front and the words don't come out right; he can't finish them. Try though he may to control himself his whole body jerks, toes curling, he can't come off yet that'd be mortifying but all he wants is that touch it's been so fucking long and Richard's fingers are making up for it, pressing inside; Thomas shudders, teeth digging into his lip—he needs to be quiet but he also needs him there, _touching_ ; he grinds his hips down against him and that's when Richard straightens out. Once he's caught his breath Thomas says, "git," but he's laughing.

Richard is, too. He laughs the way Thomas imagines a star in a film might, golden sound to match a golden smile, only more real and pure than anything in a cinema could ever be. "Sorry."

"Don't be, God – fuck, do it again, please–"

He does.

Thomas gasps. He lets go of one leg to brace himself with his heel, rocking himself onto Richard's hand, tension building; he's hard and he's aching and he wants him inside, "you're good at this," he gasps as he lets up, "blimey, you're – oh," when he grins and his fingers once more curve inside of him, just for a single beautiful moment, it's perfect it's wonderful it's not enough

"Well, I've had plenty of practice," Richard says warmly. While Thomas could do without the reminder that this is probably far from a rare occurrence for him, it is hard to care much about that when he's putting so much thought into this, putting thought into how he's fucking him, putting thought into what he's doing with his hands. So much thought. Thomas feels as if he could just lie here and Richard would ease everything out of him all on his own, as if he'd figure him out without him saying or doing anything, no hints or nothing, just slowly slowly slowly fucking him with his fingers and hearing his body, reading him like a book; he's doing it already.

Maybe the extra days helped. Usually he doesn't know a bloke for longer than half an hour before they've got their trousers off.

Thomas makes some kind of noise. He tries not to squirm.

Richard pulls out, which doesn't help him get a hold of himself.

"...right, shall we?"

"Don't need to ask me twice," Thomas says. _Don't need to ask me at all,_ he thinks.

Richard nods.

He is by far the most handsome man Thomas has ever had in his bed.

Not that he's had very many men in his bed. (Not to say he hasn't had plenty _other_ places…)

With his other hand Thomas searches blindly for the tin of vaseline (he has to wonder if it got much use at the other great houses stop thinking about it stop), patting over the mattress; Richard says, "looking for this?" and lifts his eyebrows, a handsome, mischievous smile on his face.

"Yes," he retorts, and Richard laughs properly this time.

When Thomas takes him in hand a few moments later, fingers curled around slicking him up, he exhales long and slow, a ripple through his neck and shoulders, and before long his prick is firm in his hand from his touch alone. Or, from his touch and from looking at him… looking at his face, having him on his back instead of his stomach. Makes certain things difficult, this way, but God is it worth it; it is worth it and new and wonderful, when it's been so long since he's had anybody let alone a lover, a real one, and they're not lovers (and they're not going to be no matter what stupid hopes he has) but Richard's treating him as if he's something precious all the same.

Having him inside is as good as he'd hoped it would be.

* * *

**Letter, from London, to Downton**

_7/8/1927_

_Dear,_

_If there is a wise way to begin a letter like this I don't know it. I'm afraid I'm terribly out of practise. From what you've told me I gather you were once writing & receiving letters of this sort on a regular basis—I hope what I have to offer doesn't pale in comparison with your memories. _

_Shall I get on with it, then?_

_Eighteen nights have passed since we met, and sixteen since you held me against the wall in the courtyard at D. and pressed your lips to mine under a quarter moon. Sixteen nights since you led me to your room, sixteen nights since we put those two beds together to make one, sixteen nights since I had you. I have spent them all with you on my mind._

_Your voice hoarse, your cheeks red and your lips saying "yes," the bend in your back as I held you—these are the thoughts with which I occupy myself at night…_

_…_

_X._

* * *

How intimate, how special—Richard has missed this, well and truly. That what had seemed to him at first fleeting sparks, a flicker of something worth chasing ( _but keep it reasonable, Dick, hold your horses, slacken the reins, don't be foolish, don't be forward, do it different this time_ ) (he hadn't entirely heeded that voice in his head and isn't he being rewarded for it now) has come to this, this wonderful thing they are sharing…

Thomas bends his elbow over his mouth and nose, whimpering, eyes shut; when Richard asks "all right?" for the hundredth time (there's a fine line, with all those noises, and he only hopes to God he's not going to cross it) all he does is nod. Even in the dark—and it isn't true dark, they've got a piece of the moon on their side tonight, perhaps that had been a sign all along—there is a sheen upon his forehead, colour in his face. He's expressive.

Nothing Richard has imagined over the past four days holds a candle to the real thing.

Below him (underneath him, around him) Thomas is far from passive: though he's stopped speaking, his hips move in slow rhythm with Richard's; when he draws his arm away from his face it's to wrap it around Richard's back, instead, to spread his gloved hand over his ribcage and pull Richard down toward him, or pull himself up—

They're as one, Thomas with his legs hooked around his waist and his head tossed back, thrusting his own hips upward, meeting Richard with every movement, finally relaxed around him, taking him beautifully, sweat streaming down the edge of his face God he's fucking handsome like this—

His other hand grasps at the back of his thigh just above his knee and exacts firm, demanding pressure—

He cants his hips toward him—

They each close their eyes—

Richard gasps, "oh," and " _Thomas_ ," the name new but wonderful on his tongue, and Thomas laughs; he's nearly unable to open his eyes to catch his smile—but his is too lovely a face not to look at.

Once he does it all comes together, all at once.

"I," he says, it is taking rather tremendous effort to hold off and to get the words out both, "Thomas, I'm about ready to – "

"God, already?"

_Fuck_

"Yeah, I–" Richard swallows back an unflattering noise, embarrassed. "Yeah-"

"Stay put," Thomas says, "come inside me."

"Are you quite – "

"Want to feel you in me," breathless, eyes squeezed shut, putting pressure into his touch as he pulls Richard toward him, keeping them _joined_ , what a thought, "haven't – it's been – fuck, just do it already –"

It turns out the words are all it takes: the thrill comes over him all at once, and he's overcome, feeling Thomas pulse around him, feeling his thighs cinch at his hips, the sweat at his back and sides, hearing the sounds: Thomas's voice, his own gasps, the repetitive contact of their bodies, the friction of skin against skin…

It's quick, but it leaves him with a feeling of relief he hasn't known in a long time. All the same he's _dizzy,_ his head spinning and his heart pounding, his own breath noisy in his ears.

He does his best not to waste time in pulling out. No need to make either of them suffer.

Thomas drops his hands from his thighs and relaxes his hips.

Richard looks him over and feels no less attraction, but all that tension, all that desperation is gone, now. All that's left is the electric hum in his veins, the sense that _this is something special,_ even though he's calm and satiated.

Thomas is breathing heavy and just as tense as he was before, but his prick is now soft between his legs.

"You didn't…?"

He understands immediately. He shakes his head. "Er, it happens, though," he says, looking away, turning his head sideways on the pillow such that the little light they've got reflects off of his cheekbone; Richard's breath catches, seeing it. "When it's been a while. Nothing to do with you."

Whoever would have known he'd find a man like this up here?

"It's not uncommon," Richard says, aiming to be reassuring.

"And you'd know."

He thinks he sleeps around, Richard knows.

There's nothing wrong in it, he oughtn't feel offended—and for a long while it was true, but…

"Not much for you to take care of, then, is there," Thomas says, taking the silence for himself. "If you wanted to keep…"

"You don't want more?"

"It may take a while is all."

They're talking past each other.

For a moment, Thomas looks as if he's about to say something more.

Richard gives him a chance to; once he's sure he won't take it, he sets his hand at his cheek. He's got such prominent _structure._ "It's not about how long it takes," he says.

"Not fair, though, is it? If you've got to spend much more time on me."

Impressive, actually, that he turned that into a reason to be self-conscious. He is unable to keep from raising his eyebrows. "Right," he says, "this one's on me," firm. Firm but still gracious, he hopes, no need to scare him over a silly thing like this. Still, he can't help but think of all the past times he's heard he's _condescending…_ "If I were in your shoes I'd be feeling proud of myself, for that, not worried about any _discrepancies._ "

Thomas wets his lips but says nothing.

He does mouth, _discrepancies,_ like it's stupid.

It… probably is.

"That sounds like a challenge, besides," Richard adds, quick, to get them over it.

"Well, it may be," Thomas says. He sounds unconvinced; Richard tucks the thought back where it came from. "Wouldn't _mind_ taking our time, though, if we… if you want."

He likes it slow. Something to remember. Add it to the list.

 _Thanks for the honesty._ Would it be odd, to say such a thing? It's not a stretch of the imagination to think he's not had the chance to _take his time_ for a long while.

Maybe not for the best.

"Certainly I do," Richard says, "and I'd like to very much, I can assure you."

Thomas nods.

"May I?" Richard presses.

"You like to ask questions."

"I like to be sure."

"Be sure, then." Now it's his turn to raise his eyebrows. "Go on."

And… that's it, and then the next thing he knows he's beside him, giving him the best of his fingers and mouth at the same time—and this is the best position for this, really, gives you access at all angles.

Thomas is enchanting, like this. Flushed and sweating. Occasional whimpers fall from his lips, just little ones, but needy and wanting in the best way.

And the best way to hear more of it, Richard reckons, is to just keep on with slipping his three fingers in and out of him, to ease from him all that he can.

The first thing he's working on is getting rid of the damn nerves that came over him all of a sudden.

"Sorry," Thomas murmurs again, his voice strained.

"Don't be," says Richard against his skin, "God, don't be," and he's able to draw his lips over his chest, his collar, his neck as he touches him, as he discovers this intimate place with his fingers, keeping his eyes on him as he draws away. Keeping his eyes on his face—but also his legs, as his thighs tense and toes curl, and his belly, rising and falling with every breath, each more frantic than the last. Now that he's satisfied, himself, he can take his time; he can explore. He ceases with the kisses and draws up to look at him (to keep looking at him). He sets his free hand at the side of his head, thumb on his temple, stroking.

Thomas's mouth gapes open and he seems intent on looking at him back, though it appears to be a struggle. It's cyclical: he opens his eyes, they lock into a stare, he closes them, heavy-lidded, as though drowsy. And Richard can't help but smile through it all.

The arc of his neck as he tilts his head back, the way his breathing quickens the more he's touched, the way his hair falls over his brow—Richard does his best to put all of it to memory as he slips his fingers (coated in vaseline and his own spend) in and out of him, spreading them and then bringing them back together, the movement a pulse. And Thomas rolls up into him, meeting him in the middle. Sounds of pleasure fall from his lips, more and more with each passing second, and Richard knows what he's going to do–

" _Close_ ," Thomas gasps, " _fuck._ "

This is always the best part of bedding a man: seeing what it takes to drive him over the brink, knowing he's taking him there all on his own.

"Right here, Thomas," Richard murmurs, "right now, there," coaxing, feeling him tense and then relax around his fingers, at war with himself. He can't take his eyes off him.

By now he's lasted significantly longer than Richard had done. It's a challenge, but one he's devoted to.

"Come on, Thomas, come on, there you are…"

" _God–_ "

"I know," says Richard, crooking his fingers again inside of him, watching his hips and back jerk, the brief sieze in his legs (bent and up by his sides, the tension in his neck as he forces his head back against the pillow. "I know, love."

A slip of the tongue, but it turns out to be what does it.

It takes Thomas longer to actually spend himself, too; he whimpers and gasps, and Richard only does his best to keep things constant, pressing at his taint with his thumb, keeping his fingers where they are inside—hoping it's what he needs, that it isn't too much, getting him at both places.

If it is, Thomas makes no sign of it: he _breathes_ and his chest heaves, and all Richard can do is keep doing what he's already on and _stare,_ because all of him's gorgeous, his face his body the sounds that come from his mouth, his prick at his stomach, his own come a spatter across his belly, and Richard keeps touching him until he hears a sigh and an "okay," and then he pulls out, and…

And it doesn't feel very ceremonial or serious at all. No longer is this some sort of _event,_ an act on which all things hinge… Just sex, and very good sex at that, with a bloke he's coming to like better than anybody he can remember having in years.

Thomas is panting, but as Richard does his best to soothe (rubbing circles at his chest, fingers through his hair, pressing kisses to his shoulder) his body relaxes, and with it his breath slows until he inhales and exhales at an even rhythm.

And then he sighs. "Took me long enough."

_Surely you have more to say than that._

"Nah," Richard says. "You were right on time… I tend to be early."

"In one respect," Thomas says drily.

Richard laughs like he hasn't heard the same joke a hundred times before. He can't help it. "Thanks," he tells him, once it passes, and Thomas scoffs—but it's different than it was, before. He's coy in it somehow.

He has a way about him that makes Richard wish he could sneak him back to London and keep him forever.

"What for?"

"Letting me look at you," he answers. "And all the rest, besides."

Thomas says nothing, but kisses him.

* * *

**Letter, from Downton, to London**

_Oct 1, 1927_

_Dear,_

_Does it surprise you to learn that I've read your letter over and over? I've had it with me every night since you sent it. Yes, every night I have you on my mind, just as you say you have me on yours. It may be that we are thinking of each other at the same time, you in London (or wherever else it is you get dragged along on Royal business) and me in Yorkshire, and in the same ways. If I start thinking about you at night I can't sleep until I bring myself off, so I touch myself inside and out until I do, and when I come it is your name on my lips and your smile in my head. You'll think me attached, and so I am. How could I not be, after what happened between us? After you made me feel all those things I hadn't felt for years? I can't help but think of your face when you looked at me, or the sound of your voice when you spoke. Or you saying my name as soft and kind as you did when you had just learned it. But that isn't all I remember. I think you will have figured that out by now._

_Can you picture it? Me in my bed, holding my prick or fingering myself, longing to come off and all because of you? Imagining my hand is yours. Imagining my fingers are your cock._

_You've been in my bedroom, but I haven't been in yours._

_Tell me, what's it like? What is it like at night when you're alone, after a long, hard day? Do you keep the curtains shut and the lights off or is it just the opposite, so you can see yourself? Do you do it under the bed covers or over, like we were here? Do you hide from yourself? I want to imagine you better, and I will need more details._

_For now I've got to get off on my own memories. They flatter you and no mistake. As I recall it you are the most considerate, attentive lover around, listening to me sigh and moan for you and feeling my body move with yours, taking your time to make me feel the best I ever have. Are you always that way or was it a one-off? We'll need to see each other again soon so I can know for sure._

_I want you to know that you did make me feel that way. It has been more than a month now (are you still counting the days?) and my mind keeps wandering over and over back to you, so if that's what you wanted then you've done it._

_You've left me alone to long for you. You're the only thing I can think of when I touch myself now. Try as I might to put you out of my mind, my thoughts always go back to you, and your body. I think of the way you held me and kissed me and fucked me and all I want is to have you again. You wrote in your letter about pleasure—in mine I've only spoken about me, but I can be pleasing for you again if you'll let me. After everything you gave me I think you deserve my best._

_This could be longer than it is, but I'm afraid I've kept myself up too late. Maybe I'll have more to say in the next one? You'll have to wait and see. I'm sure I'll get better at this as time goes on._

_Yours,_

_X_

* * *

The advantage of a broken boiler is he still has a water basin in his room.

"'S a day old," Thomas tells him, "and cold, 'cause I brought it up this" (probably yesterday, now he thinks of it) "morning, but – "

"It's better than this," teases Richard, with a gesture at his chest, and Thomas feels suddenly very self-conscious. It was much too quick to get comfortable. _This wouldn't have bothered you,_ he thinks, _if it had happened before, learn to take a bloody joke why don't you._ "The clean-up's never as fun as all what comes before it," he adds, maybe seeing the discontent Thomas knows is writ plain across his face, maybe not. He can't tell if it quells his nerves, hearing it.

He tosses him a wash flannel; Richard draws his hand up to catch it but misses. It gets his elbow, and then his knee.

But he takes it in stride, wiping himself off slow and leisurely, and watching him.

"Glad you enjoyed yourself," Thomas says, uneasy. He never used to be so self-conscious, so shy. Not genuinely, at least. And yet here he is, standing around feeling awkward because he just spent the last however many minutes embarrassing himself—all that _asking_ and _apologising_. It used to be he just had what he wanted, because the other bloke wanted it too and so there was no need to beat around the bush.

Maybe not _always_. He can remember exceptions, if he thinks hard about it, from back when he was young and everything felt so new and exciting...

"Never doubted I would."

How he'd felt on the way back from York.

"You don't seem like the kind to doubt much of anything, Mr Ellis."

How he'd felt in the courtyard.

"Thanks."

How he'd felt as they made their way up the stairs to the attics, how he'd felt as he pulled Richard into his room, one finger to his lips…

He doesn't like to think of himself as meek, but he has to wonder if he was, once. Behind closed doors.

It could be fun, if you were with the right person. Some people love that sort of thing.

"You were wonderful, Thomas," Richard adds, soft enough that Thomas knows he's genuine, almost like he's talking to himself, but loud enough he can still hear him clearly. When Thomas looks up he's got a smile on his face, but they share only a brief moment of eye contact before he looks back down at his hands, clasped on one knee, thumbs fidgeting. "You were grand—the last time I – "

 _The last time,_ he says. Thomas raises his eyebrows.

He'd known it was like that, of course. But he'd not exactly been looking for a reminder.

Eyes still fixed on his lap, Richard misses it.

"Yes?"

Even so, nice to know he's had other men within the last year and still thinks he's a good lay.

"I've told you everything," says Thomas pointedly.

It's not entirely the truth; he left out some details. Mostly the finer ones.

And… well, some key ones, too, he's not going to kid himself. But if he turns out how Thomas fears he might deep down then it was worth tiptoeing around the truth. Didn't want to scare him off, after all, especially if he's only going to be around for a night.

Back up to London in the morning.

All this forgotten and done with.

Why should he expect otherwise?

Richard looks up again. "I haven't been very lucky lately," he says, cautious but not serious. Four days isn't nearly enough time to tell how this man jokes and how he doesn't. "In love."

"Speak for yourself."

"Sorry."

Thomas shrugs.

"Only the last time I had a," Richard pauses, just for not-even-a-full-second but Thomas catches it all the same, "last night I spent with a man I'd just met didn't go so well as this has."

"How so," Thomas says. Now it's his turn to be cautious.

He almost laughs, an insincere sort of sound, but there's no bitterness in his eyes. He's still smiling there. Easy to wonder if he ever stops. "Pushed me out the back door just after we'd finished, for one," he says lightly. Either it doesn't hurt very much to talk about or he's just very, very good at hiding his feelings. Thomas supposes it's probably the latter. But he's been wrong before on that score, hasn't he? "Turned out the wife had been in the house all along." Of course. "And that wasn't my first night with him, neither, we'd had a bit of time, but it's a whirlwind, meeting somebody new and falling fast…"

A whirlwind is right.

Thomas happens to be experiencing one right now.

"...I'd gotten caught up in the wishful thinking."

"Easy to do."

"Yeah." He sets one hand behind him and leans back, casual, eyes fixed. "Afterward—and this wasn't that long ago, now, much as I wish it were—afterward, I swore off men who weren't in service, as you tend to know off the bat with us and we all understand the requirements, don't we, but we're fewer and fewer these days, and I don't like to…"

"Shit on your own doorstep?"

He laughs. "Something like that."

"We're bad at that, here."

"So I've noticed."

He tosses Thomas back the rag; he catches it with ease, then decides maybe he didn't need to do that. But he can hardly be squeamish about his own, can he?

Something to deal with in the morning.

For now he's neat and tidy enough to get some sleep.

"What about you?" Richard asks, depriving Thomas of the chance to ask about the last bloke he hadn't just met. "With other servants. Aside from what happened with that footman."

Thomas blushes. "No." And that wasn't anything. Ever. No matter what he'd told himself. "Nobody else."

Not for long, anyway.

"Pity," Richard says, "but others' loss is my gain, Mr Barrow."

He reaches out a hand. When Thomas joins him in bed again he wastes no time in looping his arm around his waist. He is warm and perfect and Thomas could melt, he really could; he lets his head fall onto his shoulder. Blimey has it been a night. "Mind if I stay?"

"Is that very circumspect, Mr Ellis?"

"No." He's grinning; Thomas knows it. "But I'd very much like to."

Then there's no reason for Thomas to protest.

Well. There are several reasons, if not many, and most of them are good ones, but if Richard is willing to ignore them… Thomas will be, too. Richard's done this before, after all, and within the last bloody decade at that. He knows what he's doing.

They lie down.

It should be more uncomfortable than it is, with sweaty bodies and damp sheets and stuffy air, but Thomas can't remember the last time he was with a man like this and that knowledge is drowning out all other concerns of his.

They even start to breathe at the same time.

He doesn't know how long it's been before the words slip out of his mouth: "I feel like I've been waiting for this."

Richard takes his hand and squeezes, but he's silent, and Thomas tries to justify, sitting up, "as I said, it's been some time, so – "

"I could tell."

"Yeah, well – "

"That you've been waiting." Richard bends his arm; Thomas lets his hand go with him. "You wear your heart on your sleeve, Mr Barrow," he goes on.

Thomas's heart, very much in his chest, thuds.

"I can't blame you for it," Richard murmurs, "I keep mine there, too, when I can."

Whatever had been about to erupt inside of him calms just at those words.

There is something about this man that just puts people at ease.

Him. Not just people, him.

"Can you very often?" Thomas asks. He presses a kiss to Richard's hand, held fast in his own.

"Often, no… but right now, yeah," with a smile. "Yeah, I think so."

They fall asleep in each other's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> little an unabridged sexy letter, as a treat
> 
> [on tumblr as @combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)


End file.
